


I Swore to You (I'd Never Fall Apart)

by safe_haven



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Fluff, JUST, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, let me be self indulgant in peace, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-12 21:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safe_haven/pseuds/safe_haven
Summary: Anxiety attacks are not always hyperventilation. They can manifest themselves as a variety of different symptoms. Lucky for Peter Parker, he experiences his fair share of all of them.Lucky for Tony Stark, he's learning how to deal with all of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if Peter Parker and Tony Stark don't hug in Endgame we're sentencing the Russo brothers to electric chair no questions asked

**Anxiety can take different forms, such as:**

_**Unpredictable bouts of rage** _

Peter suddenly felt trapped. He could hear everything- every slight tap, Tony's breathing, someone walking a few buildings over. His ears were ringing, and he could barely keep his eyes open over the blaring headache that was forming at his temples. 

His face was starting to heat up, and his limbs moved without his permission. He was sitting in Tony's lab, trying his hardest to focus on the task at hand. He couldn't, however, seem to find the  _fucking_ red wire. He could feel its presence in his hands, but it wasn't processing with him. He clutched it tighter and tighter, his body beginning to shake. 

"Woah, kid," Tony said. Peter clenched his teeth together. Anger boiled within him. How dare Tony Stark speak to him at a time like this? But he kept talking, the bastard. "You okay? Why's your face getting so red?" 

Peter took in a sharp breath, dropping the red wire onto the table. He vaguely noticed blood welling in his palms where his nails were digging in. He wanted to scream, to throw punches, to do anything to release the energy that was building inside of him. His chest was beginning to rise and fall erratically as he struggled to contain his anger. 

"Pete?"  _God,_ there was that voice again. It was  _grating._ Why couldn't Tony just shut up? Just close his goddamn mouth? Red tinted his vision, and he bowed his head to stop the pain from reaching his throat. 

"Seriously, kid. Talk to me."

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, sh-_ "Shut  _up!"_ It came out as a yell, and Peter slammed his fists so hard into the table that he dented the metal. Tony raised an eyebrow at the outburst, but that was the only physical reaction he had. Once the energy found an outlet, it wouldn't stop spilling out. "Why won't you just shut up? Don't you get it? Don't you fucking get it, shut  _up!"_

Peter covered his ears with shaking hands, face scrunched up in anger or pain, Tony wasn't sure which. Peter dragged a stuttering breath into his lungs. Tony reached forward, risking a shoulder touch. It felt like he had held fire to Peter's shoulder. 

Turns out Bruce isn't the only one with anger problems. 

Peter wrenched so hard away from the touch that he almost pulled his shoulder out of place. All at once, Tony knew exactly what was happening. The pieces clicked into place. Anxiety attack, most likely caused by sensory overload, judging by Peter's actions. 

He now had his back turned to Tony, body shuddering and arms wrapped around his stomach. 

Tony had no idea how to deal with someone else having an anxiety attack. He considered reaching out again, but Peter looked coiled as if he might jump at any second. He was afraid he would cause another outburst. 

Peter suddenly stalked away, fingers tugging painfully at his hair. Tony watched as he flicked his hand. A string of web came flying out, attaching itself to a piece of heavy lab equipment. Just as Tony was about to ask what he was doing, Peter yanked his arm back, bringing the equipment hurdling towards him. At the last second, he threw a punch, and it streaked across the room. After it hit the wall with a satisfying  _thud,_ Peter rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck and scapulas with the action. 

"You okay now?" Tony asked, voice barely above a whisper. Peter sighed, nodding. And then, he collapsed. Tony caught him before he hit the ground, holding the shuddering body against his own chest. 

"I'm sorry," Peter said. His eyes were rimmed with red as though he was about to cry, but no tears ever came. 

"You're okay," Tony said back, voice muffled by his hair. 

. . .

 

**_Fast-talking, stuttering, stumbling over words_ **

 

It happened while Peter was blasting the words to a Broadway musical. He was in the apartment by himself, making dinner for when May got home and having the Time of His Life. 

"Santa Fe!" he sang. "My old friend! Woo! Yee _haw!"_

He began to stir the spaghetti sauce in his pan, using the wooden spoon as an occasional microphone. He picked up the glass cover to the pan, covered with droplets of water, and began to place it back over his dinner. As he tried to fix the rubber parts over the edge, his hand slipped, and the heel of his palm hit the stove. Hard. His heart skipped a beat as pain radiated from the burn. 

Though he had been hurt worse, hell, he'd been burned by spaghetti worse, this time felt especially panic-inducing. He cursed under his breath, struggling to pull a deep breath in through his fluttering heart. He moved from the stove to the sink, shoving his hand under some cold water. 

The damaged area was beginning to turn purple. Tears pricked his eyes as his thoughts tumbled over one another. 

"Pete?" 

He jumped at the sudden voice, coming from the watch on the wrist that wasn't being drowned right now. 

"H-Hello, Mr. Stark." 

"Hey. FRIDAY says you're in distress. Wanna tell me what that's about?" 

Peter closed his eyes, giving himself a mental reminder to never wear that stupid watch again. He groaned as the pain worsened. "Yes. I'm o-fuck. I mean. Ah. I'm o..okay. I'm okay." He heard Tony hum, and he brought the wrist to his face to hear his next words better. 

"Of course you're fine. Now, what's going on?" 

Peter wiped at the sweat forming at his hairline with his free hand. He felt like he was going to explode. 

"N-Nothing, I'm..." 

What was he saying? He couldn't remember. His entire body was screaming at him to  _run. Get out. Hurry._

"Okay, Peter. I'm on my way." 

_What did he say? On his...what? What does that mean?_

Peter decided to ignore this, sinking to the floor with his burning hand and anxious mind. He bowed his head, closing his eyes and waiting for the pain to stop. He vaguely heard whimpering. It didn't register that it was his own. After a few minutes, he heard the water being cut off, and arms wrapping tightly around his body. 

"Hey, kid," a familiar voice greeted. "You're gonna be alright. Let me see your hand." Through his blurred vision, Peter couldn't tell where exactly he was, or who was talking to him. Nonetheless, he complied. A gentle touch turned his hand over so it was lying palm up. 

"Oh, Peter," the man said. "You really got yourself good this time." There was a chuckle. The person with the calming voice slowly rubbed something over the affected area, and Peter flinched. "I know, kid. I know. It'll get better, I promise." Then, there was something being applied to the burn. The pain immediately eased. Peter sighed in relief, letting his head loll onto the chest of whoever had come to his aid. 

Tony buried his fingers in the kid's hair, wondering what could have possibly triggered an anxiety attack bad enough for him to pass out. He knew it couldn't be the burn; he had been hurt way worse than that before. He smoothed hair off the kid's damp forehead, whispering soft, concerned reassurances into the curls. They were  _so_ going to be having a long talk about this later, but right now, he could settle for calming Peter down.

"Mr. Stark?" 

Oh, so now the kid recognized him.  

"Yeah, kid?" 

His speech was slow and slurred, as if it were just coming down from an adrenaline high and was now crashing, hard. 

"I'm sorry for all this." Tony shook his head, his fingers pushing at Peter's closed fist so he could get a better look at the already healing wound. 

"Don't apologize, Underoos. I've got you." 

**_. . ._ **

**_Not talking at all_ **

The ones that would render him speechless were always slow. A quiet onset of bone-aching panic. Anxiety thrumming deep within his veins, shaking him from the inside out. They were always the worst. 

He was sitting at his desk in the compound this time, scribbling doodles all over his pre-cal notes.  _Fuck_ analytical trigonometry. His vision blurred slightly, and he didn't notice the tears until he tasted them. He sighed, watching the problems swim before his eyes. Maybe that was the worst part of it all. The numbness. He would have loved to scream right now, to be angry or sad or  _anything_ other than whatever the opposite of feeling was. 

"Hey, kid," Tony said, slapping his shoulder from behind. Peter wrinkled his nose at the sudden and unwanted touch. He wanted physical affection, yes, but not the rough hits. When he didn't respond right away, Tony turned to look at him. 

"Going through a rebellious phase?" he asked, an incredulous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Peter dried his eyes and shook his head. He was exhausted. He didn't care what Tony thought of him at that moment. 

Luckily, Tony didn't notice. He simply shrugged, getting back to whatever his intention was when he first came in. After ten minutes of working in silence, Tony looked up at Peter, exasperated. 

"What is  _up,_ today, kid? You're not gonna try to hug me? Take videos? Yell something about your wig every time I breathe?" Peter sighed, burying his head in his hands. How could he possibly make Tony understand that he couldn't talk right now even if he tried? 

Finally, his weakness got the best of him. He slid out of his chair and made his way over to Tony. The man watched, one eyebrow cocked in curiousness as to what was going to happen next. Once Peter got close enough to, he fell heavily onto Tony's chest. 

Stark let out a surprised "Woah!" before managing to wrap his arms around his kid's body. "Okay, okay. That's okay. What's going on?" When Peter didn't answer again, Tony sighed. Okay. No talking. Cool. He reached up a steadying hand, passing his thumb over Peter's temple and pushing hair behind his ear. Peter sniffed loudly, pressing his face into Tony's shirt so he wouldn't see him cry. 

Tony didn't comment on his tears, just traced slow circles across his back to calm him down. It took a few minutes, but Peter stood straight again. His face was red and held traces of tears. He body was shaking. He felt exhausted beyond words. He wanted to go to sleep and sleep forever. Tony seemed to get this message, because he trapped one of Peter's arms with his hand. 

"Come on, kid," he said. "Let's go sit down. You've earned a break." He spared a glance at the huge pre-cal textbook that was lying, open, on his desk. Peter followed him without putting up a fight, his breathing evening considerably. 

When they got to the couch, Tony was the first to sit, following by a reluctant Peter. Tony sighed, pulling Peter into his chest. Peter melted into his arms, eyes squeezing shut as the tension left his body. Tony buried his hand in Peter's hair. He used his free hand to guide Peter's nails away from his arm. "You don't have to do that," he assured. "You're okay. You're safe. There's no reason to be scared." 

The warmth of Peter being pressed so close numbed the thoughts in Tony's head. His eyelids began to slip after about ten minutes of them sitting there together. Suddenly, he heard a voice beyond the cotton feeling of sleep. 

"I can't talk during anxiety attacks sometimes," Peter was saying. 

Tony tightened his grip over Peter's hand, a last-ditch effort to ground the kid. "I'll remember that," he murmered. 

. . . 

**_Sitting rigid, staring into space, zoned out_ **

After school that day, Peter sat on a stool in Tony’s lab. He hadn’t been able to focus all day, the nightmare from last night hitting him again and again. By now, he had forgotten almost everything from the dream, even the things he had seen. The thing that bothered him was the fear he felt. It was always the fear that came back. Rose just below the surface.

He dropped a tool in frustration. Tony looked at him in surprise; he had given Peter space because the kid looked like he needed it. But he usually never did something like this. He didn’t say anything, letting Peter keep his personal bubble. While he was usually tactile, he now flinched every time anyone got too near to him. Tony gave himself a silent reminder to punch the nightmare. He gave himself a second silent reminder to figure out a way to punch a nightmare.

Peter lowered his head into his waiting arms, and Tony got back to work, trying his hardest to fight down the urge to reach out and touch him. He had no idea if he was angry or sad or if he couldn't talk. He guessed he would just have to wait it out.

Then, Peter moved aside a few tools between him and Tony. He made a point of putting his head down, this time nearer to Tony.

The man smiled softly, putting down what he was working on. So, physical affection. He could do that. He took this as a signal to reach out, tapping Peter’s arm a few times. Then, he slid his hand up and down, rubbing small circles onto his forearm. The thought nagged at the back of his head: _What had this kid seen?_

He slowly made his way to Peter’s hair, petting through the curls as softly as he could. Suddenly, so suddenly it made Tony jump, Peter lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed with red, his face soft and lower lip trembling. He stared at Tony’s hand for a moment. Just as he was about to retract his touch and apologize, Peter dropped his cheek into Tony’s palm. The move was so kid-like and gentle that Tony’s heart wrenched.

Peter gazed up at him with his big doe eyes, sniffing quietly. Tony smiled in reassurance, tracing his kid’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. Peter melted into the touch, heaving a big sigh as he visibly relaxed.

“It’s gonna be okay, kid.”

Peter closed his eyes, trying his hardest to contain his labored breathing. Everything would be okay. 

"So, let's have a little talk about these anxiety attacks." 

Oh, God. 


	2. Darling, Only You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me and my best friend are seeing Endgame this Friday and I am so not ready I've already.cried so hard over it

**Anxiety can be handled in many different ways.**

**_Uncontrollable bouts of rage_ **

Peter and Tony now had a system for recognizing and dealing with different symptoms of anxiety attacks.

There was a party in full swing now at Tony’s place, the time quickly approaching one a.m. Peter was doing fine, mingling well with Tony’s friends and associates. In fact, he almost felt no anxiety at all. Still, Tony watched him carefully, ready to jump to his aid at any time.

It was 11:43 p.m when Peter felt the familiar tingling at the base of his neck. He tried to ignore it at first as he chatted with a business man from Brooklyn. Then, the conversation ended, and he was left in a room filled with shifting, loud people, talking and laughing as he wasn’t doing anything.

He looked around for Tony, trying to force his gaze to look natural and relaxed instead of frantic. He couldn’t see his mentor anywhere. The tingling rose to a steady buzz, and a feeling like cotton filled his head. Suddenly, he was  _ angry. _

Everyone at this party was so  _ loud.  _ And they were so close to him, too. How rude could they be? Didn’t they understand? Why couldn’t they shut up?

Someone brushed his shoulder, and he felt like he might explode. Finally, like the red sea parting, Peter caught sight of Tony leaning against a counter. He was having a casual conversation with someone Peter couldn’t see to his right. 

Peter clenched his fist and then let it relax, taking in deep breaths as inconspicuous as he possibly could. He made his way over to where the man stood, smiling brightly at him when Tony acknowledged his presence.   

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, voice wavering slightly. “May I speak to you?”

Tony supplied an apology and excused himself from the conversation he was currently partaking in. He followed Peter to the only silent corner of the room. While Peter was determined to keep up his air of calm so as not to alert the other guests, Tony didn’t seem to care. His face was scrunched up in concern, his shoulders tense.

“What’s going on, kid?”

"Why won't anyone at this party  _ shut up?" _ Peter gasped as he let the facade fade. He felt pressure building up in his hands, and all he wanted to do was punch someone. Hard.

Tony, of course, knew exactly what this meant. So, avoiding any unnecessary contact, he led Peter to the training room a few floors down. He didn't talk at all, wary of Peter's sensitive hearing and shaking hands.  

Once the elevator doors slid open, Peter barrelled past thin air, shoulders hunched and steps faltering. Tony followed him to the training room. Though he knew it was better to leave the kid alone when he was like this, Peter needed someone there to catch him when the energy left him exhausted and weak.

Peter's footsteps were heavy as if he were trying to beat up the floor. Tony watched as he pounced on a punching bag, throwing swing after swing after swing.

Then, it happened. As it normally does. Like someone flipped a switch, the shaking stopped. Peter stumbled back, staring for a second at nothing, and then, collapsed.

Tony was there to catch him, holding him close against his chest. "Feeling better, kid?" he whispered, an unsure hand hovering over Peter's curls.

The teenager just sighed, nodding minutely. It was the only sign Tony needed before he dropped his hand into Peter's hair. He made a small noise of content, closing his eyes and letting himself be held.  

. . .

**_Fast talking, stuttering, stumbling over words_ **

This time, Clint Barton was there to see it. Peter was doing homework at the kitchen counter, eating his afternoon snack as he worked through calculus problems. 

Clint came in, bow and arrow strapped to his back. Either he had just come back from training, or was just headed to it. Either way, he grabbed something to eat from the fridge and paused to talk to Peter.

"Oh," he groaned. "Homework. I am so glad I dropped out of school to become a spy for a corrupt organization." His eyes rolled back. "Such a better life choice than fundamental education."

Peter smiled up at him, which earned a return smile from the man. "It's not too bad, Mr. Hawkeye sir. I enjoy math, actually."

Clint grunted. "You've been spending too much time with Tony."

The next few moments passed in comfortable silence, before a loud tearing noise sounded in the air. Clint looked up long enough to see a torn Calculus textbook page, wide brown eyes, and shaking hands.

"I tore the page," Peter whispered. "I tore the page. Oh, God." He lowered his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking. His entire brain was going haywire. He couldn't think clearly enough to realize that this wasn't a big deal.

"Woah, kid. It's okay." Clint's voice was concerned and hesitant. He wasn't exactly sure why Peter was having a meltdown over a small tear.  

"F-Fuck, I tore the...Oh, God. W-What have I-I done? I tore the goddamn p-"

_ Run. Get out. Hurry. _

Vibrations of panic screamed through his veins, and it took every ounce of strength in him to simply lower himself down to the floor.

Within minutes of the tearing sound, Tony was in the kitchen, looking wildly between a confused Clint and a terrified Peter. He quickly dropped to his knees in front of the kid, who was shaking intensely, his knees pulled to his chest.

"Hey, Peter," he soothed. "Do you know who I am? Can you tell me my name?"

Peter shook his head vigorously.  _ I just have to get out,  _ he thought desperately.  _ I just have to run away. _

Tony took both of Peter's arms in his hands. "It's me. It's Tony Stark, kid." He found the smooth part, just below Peter's palm where the bone ending stuck out slightly. He tapped on Peter's inner wrist three times on both arms. He repeated this when he didn't get an immediate response.

"It's just Tony, Underoos. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Clint watched on, intrigued by the strange show of affection and the even stranger reaction of the kid. Peter managed to wrestle a deep breath into his lungs.

"Tore the page," he mumbled into his knees. "Tore the textbook page."

If this surprised Tony, he didn't say anything. Just kept tapping in bursts of three. Peter's shoulders slowly relaxed, and he looked up. His eyes were rimmed with red, and his head was fuzzy and his vision blurred from just barely avoiding passing out.   

"You're okay now. I'm here."

Peter nodded heavily. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Mr. Clint," he whispered.

"No trouble at all." Clint had a gruff look of slight compassion on his face. "As long as you're okay." He left the two in peace, knowing that Tony could calm Peter down better than he ever could.

True to this, Peter was completely over the attack just a few minutes after Clint left.  

"Now, this wasn't about the paper," Tony started. "Talk to me."

. . .

**_Not talking at all_ **

More and more days after the Snap, Peter came into the lab without greeting Tony or without making jokes. It was part of the depression that comes along with watching yourself die slowly and painfully, and then being wrenched by to life.  

But some days were different. Some days, there was a strain behind the silence. As if Peter were trying to talk. As if he were talking, but nobody could hear him.

Today was one of those days.

"Hey, Peter."

These were the worst of the attacks. Not only did they hurt the worst for Peter, but they were the only one without a quick fix. They just had to wait out the storm. The way Tony helped always changed.

"I know you can't talk right now. It's okay. I've got you." Though they were across the room from each other, the warm words still comforted Peter.  

"Do you need to lie down? Wait it out?" Peter lowered his head into his hands, rubbing at the silent tears.

"What do you need to do?" Tony kept his voice as calm and slow as possible, careful not to overwhelm Peter. The boy just sat down on a chair, staring at Tony with empty eyes.

Finally, he reached over and tapped on the metal table.  

_ Drag. 1, 2, 3. Tap. Drag. 1, 2, 3. Tap, drag, tap tap. 1, 2, 3. Drag, tap, drag. _

_ T.A.L.K. _

Morse code.

Tony nodded, impressed. "Okay. You need me to talk?" Peter nodded his approval. "About anything?" Another nod. "Anything you need."

The next hour was filled with the quiet hum of Tony's voice, talking over the deep thrum of panic in Peter's body.

. . .

**_Sitting rigid, staring into space, zoned out_ **

They happened randomly. And they always hit Peter like a train. Mood drops. So sudden and fast and hard that he had no choice but to put down what he was doing and sit. His friends had described this to him in a joking manner.

_ "Bro, your mood drops are awful. You could be in the middle of shooting a basketball and just put it down, sit, and not speak for hours on end." _

This, apparently, was a hilarious joke. To everyone except Tony. Because he knew the look.

So, it was no surprise to him when Peter placed his box of cereal on the counter and sat heavily on a stool. His face was cold, his jaw set, and his eyes hard and unfeeling.

This was not the Peter that Tony liked to see. This was the hardest of them to deal with.  

"Hey, kid," he said gently. "It's happening again, huh?" Peter was in a different time now. Daydreaming of monsters and death and dust.

"Can you take my hand?"

Peter's eyes darted to Tony's face, then his hand. Slowly, he reached forward, placing a shaking hand into Tony's outstretched one. Tony moved forward warily. He stopped just short of Peter's personal bubble, waiting for him to take the next move.

Peter did, fortunately, lurch forward and drop himself straight into Tony's arms. He melted, gripped the back of Tony's shirt like it was his lifeline.

"Do you want to lie down?" A rough nod against Tony's chest. "Okay, kid. Let's go." Tony tried to move back to let Peter get up, but the kid clung onto his neck. Tony gave another jerk, but Peter just wrapped his legs around Tony's waist.

"Okay," Tony said softly. "That's okay." He lifted Peter off of his seat with the kid slung tightly around his body. He passed Steve and Bucky on the way to find somewhere to lie. They just gave him knowing smiles.

Tony enclosed his arms around Peter's back, pinning him to his stomach as he walked through the compound. When he found a couch that seemed suitable, he sighed, lowering himself down as carefully as he could.

Peter immediately curled into his chest. "Dumbass," he mumbled. "I hate your fucking guts." Tony had no idea who he was talking to, but he pet through his hair anyway, trapping the curls between his fingers.

 

"Get some rest," he said. "Everything's gonna be okay." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're having an amazing day!! I was very sick today. I couldn't stand without throwing up, and now I am very, very sad and absolutely exhausted. I've been sick like this for months now. I never get used to how much it hurts. 
> 
> Have an amazing day/night, my friend. -j

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! leave a comment if you'd like, please leave suggestions for irondad and spiderson tooth-rotting fluff fics, and have an amazing day! -j


End file.
